Karl Björken is staring blankly at the screen even though it’s been several minutes since he stopped taking in the information about the contents of Fredrik Stuub’s computer displayed on it. His thoughts are on Ingrid and the children in their terraced house in Sande.

He’d thought he’d managed to dodge the bullet when he was last home, narrowly avoiding a big row. And the fact is the weekend had been everything he’d hoped for; the children had been unusually well-behaved, and he and Ingrid had both made an effort to avoid The Subject.

But late on Sunday night, right after they’d made love for the second time that weekend, he’d made his first big mistake. After setting the alarm on his phone, he had sighed and said something about how he wasn’t going to get much sleep before he had to get up again.

‘Unlike me, you mean?’ Ingrid had snapped. ‘Fine, you try staying home with the kids by yourself and we’ll see how many hours of sleep you get.’

The way she jumped down his throat and the fact that she didn’t mind ruining what had been two frictionless days, had made disappointment crowd out caution. And that was when he had made his second mistake.

‘I don’t know why you’re in such a hurry to go back to work – you don’t even like your job,’ he’d said. ‘Every night when you got home all you did was complain and say how much you disliked it and wanted to quit.’

It was the truth. Ingrid’s job in the public relations department of the Provincial Board in Dunker had been a constant source of frustration as she was tasked with spinning desperate, economically motivated or simply idiotic decisions as success stories in the media through ‘proactive informational efforts’. And Karl had been genuinely appalled when Ingrid was twice passed over for promotion in favour of men in their early twenties with CVs that might have been believable for someone twice their age. Ingrid had increasingly taken to venting over dinner and had started reading the job ads more frequently.

And now their childminder had called Ingrid to tell them she was moving to Amsterdam to live with her sister. And, as his wife had frostily pointed out on the phone, they’re no longer on the waiting list for state-provided day care. Karl had felt the annual fee of 300 marks was an unnecessary expense since they’d found a private childminder they were happy with.

The caseworker Ingrid had talked to had apparently told her the wait was at least eight months. At a minimum. But something might open up after the summer, if they were lucky.

‘How am I ever supposed to find a new job, if I’m trapped at home?’ Ingrid had said, her voice dangerously calm.

He would have preferred yelling.